


Glimpses of a Reverence

by williamshooketh



Series: Banned Together Bingo 2020 Fills [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Banned Together Bingo, Bottom Illya, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Everyone is Bisexual, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Poly, Shame, Top Napoleon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamshooketh/pseuds/williamshooketh
Summary: Following the Vinciguerra affair, Napoleon is ordered by Sanders to seduce Illya for information.Neither of them realizes that Oleg has given Illya the same mission.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Banned Together Bingo 2020 Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820581
Comments: 18
Kudos: 134





	Glimpses of a Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> Everything Napoleon and Illya do is consensual, but the motivations behind it all can make the issue thorny at times, so I tagged this as dubcon just to be safe. YMMV as always.
> 
> This is written for Banned Together Bingo! The prompt is "Cross-Cultural Misinterpretation."

> “Now I see—we are always most revolted by the things hidden within us.” David Henry Hwang, _M. Butterfly_

Rome left Napoleon with a heart that doesn’t pump right if he runs for too long, some new gaps in his memory that he doubts will ever get filled, and—of all things—a newly sensitive sense of smell. Gaby has to hot-wire their getaway car one night, and Napoleon suffers the indignity of vomiting in the backseat while they make their escape, the stench of metal and electricity and smoke still acrid in his nostrils. More peculiar is his new aversion to Chanel no. 5. He leaves his heiresses and businesswomen and instead climbs in bed with their secretaries, who can’t afford couture, and their chauffeurs, who won’t wear it.

He can hear Sanders scowl when he briefs him, and he resists the urge to tell him that sodomizing Soviet agents is an art, not a science, and that, like all good art, it takes time.

His superior had first broached the subject after the mass debriefing that followed Istanbul. There had been no time after the conclusion of the Vinciguerra affair to regroup and officially discuss the parameters of their new jobs with U.N.C.L.E. The atmosphere around the table had been tense, even with Waverly’s sunny offers of tea and scones, and Napoleon had been startled by how much he appreciated the presence of his fellow agents. How many times had he endured such a tribunal of suits and scowls alone, looking down the barrel of an ever-extending prison sentence?

In the end, little was confirmed that he hadn’t already assumed: U.N.C.L.E. is a probationary team, a mark of goodwill on the part of their three governments. If it doesn’t work, the C.I.A., K.G.B., and MI-6 will take their agents back with little fuss. And it does work, Waverly will look into requisitioning them for good.

For now—dual custody, dual allegiance.

After the briefing, Sanders took him aside.

 _“—so the Commie’s like a three dollar bill, eh?”_ he said.

Napoleon shifted uncomfortably and didn’t answer.

 _“He just spent the whole debrief sniffing at you, Solo. What’s more,”_ he added as Napoleon opened his mouth, _“I’ve read his file. We all know what_ Oedipus complex _means. So let’s skip the maidenly blushing. Fucked him yet?”_

Napoleon schooled his face into an expression of mild distaste.

_“No.”_

_“You wanna tell me why the hell not?”_

_“—he’s scared,”_ Napoleon told Sanders at last. “ _Frankly can’t say I blame him.”_

Sanders grunted. _“And what’s your odds of making him less scared?”_ When Napoleon didn’t immediately respond, eyes askance and his mouth twisting uneasily, he added, “ _That Russian could be the best break the company’s had in a decade.”_

_“I don’t see what my_ _fucking him has to do with that.”_

_“Don’t play dumb, Solo. Now, as you heard, Waverly might have custody of you,”_ he continued, _“but we’re still holding the leash. So if you want to keep that nice place in Camden and those fancy_ _brunches with Miss Teller and your Russian tail, I suggest you play ball. So I’m gonna ask you one more time, and this time I better like what I hear.”_

And he waited, eyebrows arched in expectation.

Napoleon shifted uneasily.

 _“He’s a Commie, Solo.”_ Sanders rolled his eyes. _“Give him a taste of the decadent West, and he’ll roll right over.”_

Napoleon drew in a breath.

 _“Yeah.”_ He swallowed. _“Yeah, I can do it.”_

Everything about Illya Kuryakin is familiar—like finding a photograph of a street you used to live on—and it turns Napoleon’s stomach. He’s combative, of course, but those moments of antagonism are tempered by the times he can’t seem to take his eyes off Napoleon. Napoleon is used to being looked at, but it feels different with Illya; Illya is not used to looking. His glances are quick, embarrassed, uneasy things. Sidelong and fleeting and hungry.

He refuses to let Napoleon touch him, even if it’s just a companionable clap to the shoulder. If Napoleon tries it, he’ll pull away, a habit that isn’t lost on anyone, including Gaby.

In Lisbon, where Napoleon sustains a bad graze to the shoulder and Gaby is across the city running the other half of the mission by herself, Illya has to bandage him up. They don’t make eye contact once: Illya’s focus is on the still-bleeding wound and Napoleon’s gaze is on the opposite wall. Illya flushes the wound clean, paints it with stinging iodine, and then sews it shut with neat, careful stitches. The hand that doesn’t hold the needle is heavy on his shoulder, immobilizing him.

“You are not careful enough,” he mutters at last.

Napoleon half-grins, but it turns into a grimace as the needle digs into his skin a final time.

“You starting to worry about me, Peril?” he says. “I think I’m touched.”

Just once, Illya’s eyes flick over and meet Napoleon’s. His lips twitch, and then his gaze is flying back to his work.

“World does not revolve around you,” he mutters.

He ties a mercilessly tight bandage and flees without another word.

#

The problem of seducing Napoleon is that he’s constantly in demand. The threshold of wherever he’s ensconced himself sees a constant interchange of high heels and brogues— _the pussy parade,_ Gaby calls it, a wicked gleam in her eye. One has to find time in between his conquests to get the hooks in.

Somewhere between Istanbul and Paris, Illya decides to use this to his advantage and affects jealousy: every time Napoleon leaves a party earlier with someone on his arm, or else arrives the next morning looking rumpled and bruised and well-fucked, Illya hurls judgmental glares in his wake. Gaby laughs at Illya and calls him a stiff old man. Meanwhile, Napoleon largely ignores all his disapproval and sometimes—Illya swears—plays up the stories of his conquests with more detail than usual just to nettle him. One morning in Dublin, as they’re all breakfasting, he comes around Illya’s chair, trailing cheap rose perfume like a broken bottle, and then dares to wink at him as he sits down.

Illya almost misses his mouth with his fork.

After the post-Istanbul briefing, Oleg had escorted Illya to a five-star hotel room in London that the K.G.B. had secured. Oleg poured himself a vodka and offered the bottle to Illya, who declined, earning a condescending smile.

 _“What can you tell of us of the American?”_ Oleg asked after enjoying a few sips of his drink.

Illya shifted.

 _“A sensualist,”_ he said. _“Egotistical, individualistic.”_ He hesitated, and Oleg caught it. His eyes narrowed.

_“What else, Kuryakin?_ _”_

He pressed his lips together.

_“He has many vices.”_

He prayed that Oleg would take the hint without him having to say it directly, but his luck didn’t hold. Either Oleg legitimately hadn’t understood, or he was playing dumb just to humiliate him. He swallowed.

 _“Drink, women, fine things. Men.”_ He dropped it in like an afterthought. Oleg sat back. _“That is not in the file,”_ Illya added stupidly.

 _“No.”_ Oleg gave him a rather chilly smile. _“He could prove to be a useful contact,”_ he said. _“Work on him. Use what you know.”_

Illya felt something sink in his chest. He might have called it panic, but he didn’t want to break something or flee, as he usually did in such situations. It was an oily, insidious feeling, hot and acidic, and it made him want to curl into a ball, make himself smaller. Shame. And—beneath it—fear.

They must already have known about Napoleon’s proclivities, or else they wouldn’t have had such a plan immediately at the ready. The ritual of the oral report had simply been to make Illya squirm.

His bisexuality was not common knowledge. Easy labels like _Oedipus complex_ could be applied to any sort of psychological abnormality, of which Illya had plenty. The few, guarded trysts he had had all been with women. He was wary of even taking a second glance at another man—better not to risk it, he thought, with his family already so shamed. To be a Kuryakin was to walk a tightrope.

And yet somehow Oleg had caught on.

 _“Yes, sir,”_ Illya said.

_“Do you have any questions for me?”_

He didn’t hesitate.

 _“Will this come back on me later on?”_ he asked.

Oleg’s eyes flicked from his glass to Illya’s stony face.

_“Kuryakin?”_

Clearly it was a mission with a double edge. On one side, to acquire valuable intelligence. On the other, to prove that his loyalty couldn’t be swayed by Western decadence. And if the State decided to be vindictive...

To be labeled a traitor—whether for failing in his mission, fraternizing with an enemy, or _betraying party values_ —would earn him a swift journey to the gulag. And he knew only too well the sorts of horrors that lurked in those camps.

 _“Will what I do for this mission,”_ Illya asked carefully, _“be held against me by the State?”_

 _“I think you can anticipate a degree of leniency,”_ Oleg said. _“Dependent upon your success.”_

Illya makes a cover out of his inexperience. The best lies have grains of truth to them, after all. So he lets himself flush, lets himself steal glances when Napoleon appears not to be looking. He lets himself get caught and tries to swallow his humiliation at the knowingness of Napoleon’s smiles.

He continues to bug his bedroom, but this time—uneasy and flushed—pays attention when Napoleon brings company over. In Athens, Illya gets painfully hard listening to him take apart some vapid CEO’s son. The only sounds the young man can manage are a series of _ah-ah-ah-ah_ s above the slap of flesh on flesh, and all the while Napoleon laughs in a way that almost sounds pitying. The next morning, Illya can’t meet his eyes without remembering the obscenities of the previous night. Napoleon winks at him.

He feels whorish, looking at Napoleon through his lashes, in his periphery, tracking him with his eyes like he can’t get enough of him. Napoleon, egotist that he is, thrives under the attention and even more from the apparent delight of needling Illya. He’s sure Napoleon must have some idea that the version of Illya that has become his cover wants him. But Napoleon doesn’t seem inclined to do anything about it, and whenever Illya thinks about taking the initiative, his palms start to sweat and his heart rate kicks up.

In Monaco, Gaby lays the whole thing open to Illya. They’re sitting in a tiny street-side café, and she looks fresh and lovely in her white dress and pale pink scarf. Illya isn’t the only one who thinks so; Gaby has become Napoleon’s last-minute substitute after this mission’s bored, wealthy wife took an unexpected shine to her. There’s a purple bruise on the side of her throat that her scarf doesn’t quite cover. Illya tries not to look at it. He can’t help wondering whether it’s all part of the job to her, or if she can enjoy it for its own sake. And if she can, whether she’s done it before or if she’s sacrificed her first for the mission. Part of him wants to ask but the mere idea makes his ears turn red. 

Gaby is another of the many, many complications of his private mission.

She eyes Illya hard over her coffee.

“What’s wrong?”

He smiles at her, sips his drink.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She says it fondly. One of her fingers brushes his where their hands rest on the table.

“I wish—” She stops abruptly.

“Yes?”

“I wish that Napoleon would get here soon.” It isn’t what she initially intended to say, and they both know it. “He’s, what, six minutes late now?”

“Gaby.”

She shifts in her chair and studies the tulips in the vase at the center of the table.

“If you want him,” she says softly, “it’s okay.”

And a little bit more of his heart cracks.

“Thank you.”

He knows his line, delivers it perfectly. But he can’t resist adding—

“You look beautiful, you know. Always.”

Her smile is fleeting and fragile.

#

Three months go by. Napoleon continues to lay who he likes, and Sanders continues to breathe down his neck. Whatever his old handler thinks, his sex life proves advantageous; after the second month, it’s clear that Illya is getting jealous. If he embellishes the stories of his exploits a little more than is necessary for the sake of making Illya clench his fist even tighter... well. He’s always loved poking sleeping tigers.

But by month three, when it becomes undeniable that petty jealousy won’t make Illya overcome his hang-ups, Napoleon decides to play dirty.

Their infiltration of an infamous arms dealing syndicate takes them to Paris, where the wealthy Monsieur Patenaude, in addition to selling weapons to T.H.R.U.S.H., cheerfully opens his mansion to the sort of decadence that would make Caligula blush. Gaby plays a lowly under-secretary. Napoleon is a louche American playboy attendant on Patenaude for the parties. Illya joins Patenaude’s security detail.

Which is how Napoleon and Illya end up at an orgy one crisp October evening. Illya stands guard and stiffly rejects all invitations to participate from Patenaude’s many guests. Napoleon has no such excuse and finds himself on his back on a chaise longue with an obliging lad named Bastien grinding into his lap and kissing the side of his neck. His fingers tug on the buttons of his shirt.

Over Bastien’s curls, he spots a tall figure towering in the corner amid all the bodies. Illya’s stare is heavy, hard, and red-hot. Napoleon meets it with a wink and grabs Bastien’s ass, kisses his temple.

He lets Bastien crawl back down the length of the chaise, undo his trousers, and blow him. Bastien is experienced and a bit of a brat, and in other circumstances Napoleon might enjoy it, but all his thoughts are occupied on that gloomy corner. It’s an effort to stay hard.

When he finally looks over again—after he’s come and Bastien is climbing into his lap again—he finds that Illya is gone.

The orgy proves to be the perfect cover for Gaby to lift all the necessary documents from Patenaude’s office. Within four hours, they’re all on a plane back to London. Illya is snappish and untethered and flushes whenever Napoleon addresses him.

After, he half expects Illya to petition Waverly at least for time off, if not freedom from the team altogether. But Illya does no such thing—whatever he feels, he’s not interested in pulling away. Which is encouraging for Napoleon’s private mission, at least. But Illya seems no closer to abandoning his inhibitions.

#

In the short hours he has after the orgy at the French arms dealer’s mansion, Illya vomits everything he’s eaten in the past day and then smashes the end table in his flat. 

#

Gaby, on the other hand, comes to Napoleon’s flat while they’re on leave in London, and elbows her way into his kitchen, where she mixes drinks and glares at him.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she says. Napoleon’s pulse jolts.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He doesn’t do subtle,” she says. “And he doesn’t play games. If you want him, you’re going to have to make it clear.”

His pulse relaxes, but only just. She adds too much gin to the martini she’s mixing, but he doesn’t try to correct her.

“What exactly—”

“Illya,” she says matter-of-factly. “He’s not going to do anything, so for God’s sake put him out of his misery. I think he might combust if you don’t.” She slides a glass over to him. Out of concern for his liver, he doesn’t touch it.

“... and you’re okay with that?” he says at last.

“Didn’t I just tell you to put him out of his misery?”

He looks at her, squints. She sighs.

“It’s okay,” she says at last, and it seems as though she does mean it, although her tone is brittle. Then she gives him a vicious little grin and waves the stirrer at him. “But if you hurt him, I’ll cut your balls off with this thing and serve them on ice.”

He pushes away the guilt boiling in his gut and kisses her cheek.

“I will bear that in mind.”

She looks up at him, and suddenly all the humor is gone from her face again.

“He’s not like you and me,” she says gently. “I think he’s... rather ashamed.”

He nods.

“Yeah.”

“If you want my advice,” she continues even more quietly, “take the lead. He likes that.” Her lips twitch as though recalling a fond memory, and Napoleon’s gut clenches with guilt again.

“Gaby,” he says.

She looks at him, expectant.

“Tell me not to, and I won’t.” He says it before he can process it, but the moment it’s out, he knows that he means it. It could cost him everything, but it’s a sacrifice he’d be willing to make. Which is a frightening realization.

She puts her hand on his arm.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Then you know that if it wasn’t all right, I would tell you.” She juts her chin in the direction of Napoleon’s sweating martini. “Now drink that. It’s not getting any colder.”

The night before they’re due to fly out for their next mission, Napoleon takes a leaf out of Gaby’s book and invites himself over for drinks—meaning that he brings over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and Illya drinks water.

“I think,” Napoleon says once small talk is out of the way and Illya appears to have accepted his presence in his flat, “that we should probably talk about Paris.”

Illya’s face doesn’t change; the man could have an impressive poker face when he chose to, damn him.

“Is nothing to talk about,” he says.

“I mean about that last night.” Napoleon narrows his eyes.

Illya’s ears turn red. “Was for the mission,” he mumbles. “I understand. I will not judge you, if that is your concern.”

“What if I told you that I like that kind of thing off-mission too?”

Illya is silent for a long time. He stares into his water glass, and something in his eyes reminds Napoleon of a cornered animal. All of a sudden, he hears Gaby’s voice in his head: _He’s not like you and me... I think he’s rather ashamed._ A new kind of guilt settles in his gut, one that has nothing to do with pushing Gaby out.

Illya still isn’t looking at him, but there’s resignation in his face now.

“When did you know?” he asks, and it’s obvious he doesn’t mean Napoleon’s proclivities. Napoleon swallows.

“Probably around Istanbul.” Illya’s eyes finally flick up to meet his. He looks... wary. Napoleon smiles, puts a little humor in it. “Lots of reasons why a guy won’t go in a bathhouse. Only so many he turns beet red and can’t string two words together.”

It’s a slightly more charitable version of the truth, which is that Illya had flushed and looked seconds from panic upon the suggestion that he and Napoleon go snooping there. For a moment, Napoleon had worried that his partner would overturn a table or throw up. But in the end, he’d demurred with an impressive amount of grace and suggested that he might be more useful at Gaby’s side.

Now, Illya is pink and pressing his lips together, looking anywhere but Napoleon’s face.

“Hey.” Napoleon waits until Illya meets his eyes. “Surely you must know it’s fine, right?

It takes Illya a long time to speak. When he does, his voice is hoarse, his accent thicker than usual.

“Had hoped you would not notice.”

Napoleon smiles sheepishly. “Sorry comrade. Takes one to know one.” He clicks his tongue.

“You don’t hide.” It’s hard to tell if Illya means it in judgment or envy. Perhaps it’s both.

“Spent enough time doing that back in New York,” he says. “Then I went to Europe and...”

“And...?”

He laughed. “The Brits like a bit of G.I.”

“They did not care?”

“It was 1945, Peril, we didn’t care about much of anything, except maybe getting shot at. Hey,” he adds as Illya shakes his head. “What’s that look for?”

“Did not expect to have this conversation tonight, I suppose,” he says. “Is... overwhelming.”

“Should I go?” He says it seriously, no trace of mockery. He wants Illya to feel he has an exit strategy.

But Illya immediately shakes his head.

“No. I... I do not want you to go.”

There’s a lot of meaning packed into that handful of words.

Napoleon nods.

“C’me here,” he murmurs.

Illya’s throat bobs. Slowly, he rises from the kitchen table and crosses until he stands directly before Napoleon, who tilts his head up to hold his gaze. He says nothing, just watches Illya watch him and try to sort out all the things he wants to say.

“In Paris,” Illya says at last, haltingly. Again, his throat bobs. “That night—could not watch you.” His voice is deeper, rougher, his accent more pronounced. “Had to leave the room—all those bodies—and you—and him—” His mouth twists unhappily. Napoleon suspects that, even now, he still resents being weak in front of Napoleon. Their probationary team may be politically neutral, but the competition never stops, and Illya is a glass man who insists he’s made of rock.

Illya draws in a breath.

“I wanted it,” he rumbles. “Was afraid of how I wanted it.”

Napoleon studies his face, his constantly shifting eyes.

“D’you still want it?”

They flick back to his.

Illya nods, slow but steady, a deep furrow in his brow, and Napoleon grins, says _oh honey,_ and gently tugs him down by his collar to kiss him.

Illya’s yielding is exquisite. For a moment he stands rigid against Napoleon, not quite pulling back but not leaning in either. Then he sinks into it; he cups Napoleon’s jaw, a soft moan in his throat when Napoleon sucks on his lower lip and catches it between his teeth. Illya kisses him again and slips his tongue into his mouth, and Napoleon grabs onto what he can of his hair, tugs it. Their bodies waver back and forth together.

They pull back for breath, but Napoleon doesn’t let go of him. He grips his hair, the back of his neck, and Illya leans in and kisses him again. His hands are heavy on Napoleon’s jaw. Napoleon lets him this kiss; it’s less hungry, less desperate, sweeter, like Illya’s trying to savor as much of him as he can before he has to pull away again.

“Fuck, Illya,” Napoleon breathes. “Buy a guy dinner first, why don’t you.”

Illya’s lips brush the corner of his mouth, and then he moves back a little. They stand in the middle of the kitchen, panting a little.

Napoleon lays a hand on Illya’s chest, feels it rise and fall with his breath. He glances up at his face to gauge his response.

Illya swallows.

“We have early start tomorrow,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Napoleon says. He doesn’t have to fake regret at all. “Rain check?” Illya’s brow furrows a little. “Until later,” he rephrases, and the furrow smooths.

He nods, throat bobbing. “Yes,” he says. “Later is good.”

And Napoleon pulls him in for another, final kiss.

With the first—and arguably most difficult—phase of his task complete, Napoleon ought to feel more relieved. But as he leaves Illya’s flat, putting up his umbrella against the evening drizzle, he feels more uneasy than ever.

#

The next morning, Waverly ships them out to Stockholm. It’s going to be a dull mission: surveillance only, little fieldwork. Illya sits in his window seat, two cups of espresso bolting through his veins and Gaby asleep on his shoulder, and weighs the merits of making eye contact with Napoleon across the aisle.

The previous night was... eye-opening. The only other time he’s seen Napoleon be gentle that way had been four missions before, when T.H.R.U.S.H. sent a shaking sixteen-year-old girl to Napoleon’s hotel room to seduce and drug him. He’d treated her with the same easy kindness that he showed Illya the night before, going as far as ordering her room service while they waited for Illya and Gaby to come.

There had been little pity, which soothed Illya’s smarting pride (it had taken him nearly an hour to calm down after Napoleon left, the shame of admitting what he had scrambled to hide for years to _Napoleon Solo_ of all people bitter on his tongue, alongside the sharp taste of the wine Napoleon had been drinking). Little pity and mostly frank understanding. He had stayed put, held out his hand, and waited for Illya to come to him. Like it was only a matter of time.

Last night was for Illya; today must be for Napoleon. He has to keep him now that he has him.

He looks over at Napoleon and finds his gaze already being returned. Napoleon raises his eyebrows at him, a faint smirk on his face. Still an ass, for all his earlier gentleness.

For the last few months, Illya has developed a habit of immediately looking away when Napoleon catches his eyes on him. Now he forces himself to match the stare, pointed and all too insolent were it directed at the wrong person. He forces himself to take in all the details, the way he never let himself before. The sculpted sweep of dark hair, the square jaw, the cleft chin, the pale blue suit.

A slow smile spreads across Napoleon’s face.

Something akin to fear is kindling in Illya’s stomach, but doesn’t feel urgent.

Napoleon catches his eye, glances toward the lavatory door at the back of the cabin, and then looks back at him. He arches his eyebrows, the question clear. Illya blinks back at him, slow and deliberate, and gives him the hint of a smile.

Without looking at him further, Napoleon stands and heads for the back of the cabin and the lavatory. The clean, mannish scent of his cologne wafts toward Illya when he passes, and it makes his mouth dry; when he swallows, his throat stings. Illya hears the lavatory door click shut again.

His hands twitch on his knees.

After three minutes, he eases the still-sleeping Gaby against the seat, stands, and goes for the lavatory.

A soft, furtive knock, and then the door opens to reveal Napoleon in his shirtsleeves, rolled to his elbows. He tugs Illya inside by his tie.

The lavatory is cramped with both of them in it; there’s just enough room for Illya’s head so he doesn’t have to stoop. For a long moment they just look at each other, mouths just inches apart due to the close quarters. He can almost feel the heat radiating off of Napoleon’s body. Illya swallows. He’s loosened his tie and his collar too. Illya wonders vaguely where he put his jacket.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Napoleon whispers at last. The roar of the plane is even more audible here, but Illya hears his words loud and clear. “Come here often?”

Illya takes a breath, hooks his fingers in Napoleon’s belt loops, and says, “Shut up, Cowboy.”

The kiss is both easier and harder this time—easier because it’s not the first one, and harder because they’re perilously close to discovery. It’s hungrier too, and Napoleon wastes little time in shoving Illya against the door and pushing his thigh between Illya’s legs. Fumbling, he loosens first Illya’s collar and then his tie, then lays his warm mouth on the side of his throat, vampire-like as he sucks a kiss there. Illya catches his breath as Napoleon’s thigh grinds against his cock.

“That’s it,” Napoleon murmurs into his skin. Meaningless encouragement that Illya has grown used to after months of bugging his bedroom— _that’s it baby girl, that’s right_ —and he’d undergo torture before admitting how weak he feels when he hears it. “Come on, handsome, that’s it...”

Illya’s belt clinks when Napoleon unbuckles it. He tugs his trousers down and drops showily to his knees. The thud of his landing is loud—too loud, Illya’s pulse jolts in apprehension, but Napoleon doesn’t seem concerned by the prospect of discovery. Perhaps he thinks that they’re safe with Illya braced against the door.

He pushes his face against Illya’s hard cock through his underwear, tongues at the stain spreading in the cloth where he’s already leaking. Illya swallows a groan. Lust pools hot in his belly, powerful enough that he feels almost sick with it. He struggles to breathe normally—in through the nose, out through the mouth—but immediately loses his rhythm when Napoleon looks up at him, mouth still open on the bulge in his underwear. His lips curve into a grin.

“Okay up there?”

His throat is too tight to talk. He nods with a jerk.

Napoleon hooks his fingers under the band of his underwear and tugs. There’s the momentary shock of cold air, a huff of breath (“Je- _sus_ ,” Napoleon breathes), and then he sucks the head of Illya’s cock into his mouth with practiced ease, one hand wrapped around the base. Illya’s hands land in his hair automatically, nails raking against his scalp. Brow furrowing, Napoleon bobs his head, taking him deeper with each motion until he lets go of Illya’s cock and purses his lips around the base, nose pressed into his pubic hair. His fingers dig into Illya’s hips, and Illya has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out.

Napoleon swallows around him, and Illya’s head cracks against the door. His orgasm is upon him before he’s even aware of it. He comes down Napoleon’s throat, panting through his clenched teeth. Shamefully quick, possibly jumping the gun, but Napoleon doesn’t seem to mind.

He helps Napoleon to his feet again and then hesitates, unsure what to do now.

Napoleon smiles, not unkindly.

“Wanna help?” he asks, or maybe he said _want help?_ Either way, Illya nods, lets him take his hand, and lick a long, wet, filthy stripe over his palm. Illya gulps and momentarily forgets how to breathe as his hand is pushed into Napoleon’s open trousers. His cock is hard and unabashed, and still Illya worries that he’ll be too rough, that his eagerness will betray how much he wants it. Napoleon takes his wrist and guides him. The angle is odd, unfamiliar. It’s an almost vertiginous feeling to touch him, to watch the muscles in his throat work when he does. Somehow, it’s easy to get used to. Eventually Napoleon lets go of his hand, puts his hands on Illya’s shoulders, and kisses him. His lips are dry, rough, and his mouth tastes salty—the realization that it’s _his_ taste didn’t repulse him as it should have. Napoleon groans into each kiss, hips rolling into Illya’s fist, until he shudders against him, his mouth straying to his throat.

For a few moments, Illya simply enjoys the satisfaction of having made him orgasm—and the lazy kisses Napoleon trails along the side of his neck and behind his ear—until he realizes with a jolt that he’s now got a handful of Napoleon’s come. He blinks, frozen in place and a little queasy. After a moment, Napoleon takes him by the shoulders and angles him toward the sink. He switches the faucet on for him, which is the kind of bizarre gallantry that Illya has come to expect from him, but he doesn’t anticipate Napoleon guiding his hand beneath the water and cleaning it himself with firm strokes of his thumb over his palm. Illya closes his eyes.

When his hands are clean, Napoleon kisses him again. He catches his lower lip between his teeth, and Illya makes a soft, involuntary sound.

“When you get settled,” Napoleon says, “swing by my room. We’ll have a drink. You okay?” he adds when Illya doesn’t immediately respond.

He’s too caught on the fact that Napoleon is now the first man he’s ever kissed and the first he’s ever been intimate with. That he’s giving so many of his remaining firsts to Napoleon.

Which means that, by extension, he’s giving them to the K.G.B.

The mission has Illya and Gaby posing as husband and wife, which means there’s only one bed in their hotel suite. In these situations, Illya customarily sleeps on the couch (Gaby always jokes that she can’t tell if he’s doing it for the sake of her modesty or his). This time, he’s not entirely sure he’ll even be sleeping in the room.

He finds himself thinking, increasingly, of his mother. Antonina Kuryakin, tall, beautiful, and unflinchingly devoted to her husband. But she’d had the pragmaticism to put her sentiments aside in the name of survival. He hadn’t understood then, had lashed out at her continuously, and in the end, it had cost him her goodwill. They don’t talk much anymore. The only real correspondence between them was the delivery of her sizable pension.

He’s having to understand her now.

_Where are you going?_

_To a friend’s, varobushek. I’ll be back soon._

The men, old friends of his father, had come around like hunting dogs sniffing for a kill. Like sharks, scenting blood in the water. Antonina had done her best to keep it out of the home at first, but her efforts ultimately weren’t enough, and twelve-year-old Illya had entered the family parlor one afternoon to find his mother on her knees in front of one of his father’s government friends. The man had spotted Illya and taken one hand off his mother’s bobbing head to put a finger to his lips. He grinned, and Illya fled, had leveled his bedroom once again, and put his fist through the wall.

Never mind that they suddenly had money enough to repair that wall and replace the furniture he’d broken.

Old friends, party members, statesmen.

They’d come for drinks or dinner. Sometimes Antonina had to work harder than usual to keep their attention—their eyes would wander to Illya, trapped at his own place setting, unable to eat.

_Illyusha, go to your room._

And he’d leave the table, but he could never learn his lesson, and so he’d hide around the corner and listen.

_Perhaps we can come to some kind of understanding, Ton’ka..._

And she demurred, offered him more wine, and got him to talk about other things.

He couldn’t seem to wash enough on those evenings. To his shame, it took years before it occurred to him that Antonina had grappled with that same hot, itchy uncleanliness every day.

Napoleon doesn’t stare like those men. His glances are teasing, sometimes daring, sometimes just this side of lascivious, but Illya rarely feels unclean or pushed, and when he does, Napoleon seems to sense it and pulls back a little bit. Sometimes Illya even likes the pushiness.

Regardless, there’s no pulling back now. Illya pours himself a brandy from the minibar in the suite parlor. Rarely does he imbibe; he’s only doing it now because alcohol might be the only thing that can make him relax. Just one glass, just enough to get him out the door and over Napoleon’s threshold.

#

The knock rouses Napoleon from unpacking his toiletries. He leaves the bathroom to answer the door, pausing only to smooth his hair. He’s shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

In a perfect world, they would be doing this at Napoleon’s apartment on a cold, rainy London night. He would have cooked dinner, mixed hot toddies, gotten Illya in the mood the natural way. Yet somehow it’s no surprise that they’re here, squeezing in time for it like a boss and his secretary on the lunch break.

But it ought to be different.

He opens the door.

Illya stands in the corridor outside, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There’s a furrow in his brow, and he won’t quite meet Napoleon’s eye. It reminds Napoleon of that last afternoon in Rome when Illya had come to his room. For a moment, Napoleon had forgotten about their conflicting missions and thought that he had come to him for something entirely different.

And now here they are.

“Come on in.”

Illya does. He refuses Napoleon’s offer of a drink. Standing in the middle of the suite’s sitting room, he looks like a bellhop waiting to be paid. He doesn’t seem as nervous as Napoleon expected, however, which is a pleasant surprise.

“Where’s Gaby?” Napoleon asks.

“Asleep,” Illya says. “Or pretending to be, for my benefit.”

They exchange a brief smile. Napoleon crosses his arms and leans against the door, some of the tension in the room abating.

“So, Comrade,” he says. “What’s your master plan?”

Another smile. Characteristically, Illya’s smiles have to be dragged out of him, but once they’re out, they’re quite infectious; Napoleon feels the corners of his own mouth twitching.

Illya steps forward a little.

“Kiss me,” he says, “and maybe then I will tell you.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Napoleon says, eyebrows raised, but he’s already striding forward to obey, grabbing hold of Illya’s turtleneck collar as he does and yanking him further in.

There’s little hesitation when they kiss now. Illya’s a quick study, and just as he begins to enjoy it, Napoleon pulls back and braces his fingers against Illya’s mouth— _stay._ Illya shifts his weight and tolerates it, eyes glittering.

“Well?” Napoleon says. “I’m all ears.”

Illya’s throat bobs. After a moment he takes Napoleon’s hand and begins toying with his signet ring, twisting it back and forth, back and forth, a furrow in his brow. Napoleon lets him, waits.

“I want you inside me,” Illya says at last, very quietly, but Napoleon knows he hasn’t mistaken him. He says it like he’s been practicing it in front of a mirror, the pronoun carefully included, his pronunciation of the English quite clear.

Before he can stop himself, Napoleon’s eyes are running over him—the broadness of his shoulders, the pectorals visible through his shirt, his thighs. Illya shifts under the force of his gaze. Napoleon’s mouth runs dry.

He probably shouldn’t want it this much. But he’s willing to chalk it up to his lack of impulse control and call it a day.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say, and he hopes he sounds more in control than he feels. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

It’s easier than expected to get him in the bedroom and to get him undressed. Napoleon makes a point of meeting him halfway in everything, which probably helps—he’d expected some more reticence, but Illya doesn’t seem particularly concerned as Napoleon finally pushes him face-first into the pillows, a hand in the center of his bare back.

“Sure about this?” he says casually, and Illya glances back at him, looking impatient.

“Would I have said it if I wasn’t?”

But there’s an edge to his tone that suggests nerves, and Napoleon is reminded of the first time he found himself spread out underneath another man, seventeen and not at all sure of what he was doing. He’d pretended he’d already done it before. Probably didn’t fool the other guy even for a minute. That familiar trepidation is scrawled all over Illya’s body language, alongside something much harder to identify. Once again, Napoleon’s stomach clenches at just how much he’s taking from him. He deserves to have this from someone who’s here for him and him alone.

“Just making sure,” he says and winks. Illya rolls his eyes, and Napoleon pretends not to notice as he leans forward to press a kiss behind his left ear. “So here’s the plan,” he says conversationally. “I’m gonna use my fingers. I’m gonna use my tongue.” He sucks on Illya’s earlobe, and Illya shivers beneath him. One hand digs into the nearest pillow, and Napoleon covers it with his own. “I’m gonna work you open just like that until you’re wet—” a kiss to his neck— “and sloppy—” and another— “and begging me for it.” He blows a stream of cool air against the shell of his ear, and he swears he can hear Illya starting to pant already. “And once I’ve got you begging me for it, we’ll see what we can do, huh?” He hears the soft sound Illya makes as he exhales into the pillow. “Sound good?”

Illya glances over his shoulder at him.

“You,” he rumbles, smirking, “are all talk.”

“I’ll take those odds.”

Working him open is a game of start and stop—Illya accepts it, cock twitching, when Napoleon spits into his cleft, but balks when he uses his tongue. He blushes when Napoleon calls him _pretty_ in Russian and shivers when Napoleon brushes his fingertips over his opening.

Two fingers in, and Napoleon has to remind him to breathe. He massages his left shoulder with his free hand.

“Don’t tense up.”

He works his fingers faster and hears Illya groan something obscene. With his free hand, Napoleon reaches around his hip for his cock, teases the slit with his thumb. Illya shudders, clutches around his fingers.

“Oh god—you bastard—”

Napoleon’s been the first for enough curious men and adventurous women that he knows to err on the side of caution. Illya’s undisguised sound of exasperation when he tucks a third digit inside makes him smile. He leans over his back and kisses the back of his neck, the space behind his ear. Illya rolls his hips back, the inside of his thigh rubbing against Napoleon’s cock.

“Sometime today, Cowboy,” he says.

“If you think this is gonna be a quickie, you can think again, mister.”

“The suspense is killing me.” His tone is as dry and unimpressed as it usually is when he nettles Napoleon, but once again, there’s that undercurrent of nerves that Napoleon finds difficult to ignore.

Perhaps prolonging the inevitable isn’t the best strategy.

Gently, he eases his fingers free. Illya makes a soft sound in his throat and puts his head down on his arms as Napoleon reaches for the K-Y again and coats his cock liberally.

A shudder runs from Illya’s broad shoulders through his spine as Napoleon lines himself up, and before either of them can be conscious of their actions, Illya reaches back for Napoleon’s hand.

#

There’s a moment of total silence. Illya hastily begins to retract his hand, but then Napoleon’s lacing his fingers with his, stroking his shoulder with his other hand as he eases inside him.

It doesn’t feel right. There’s no fireworks, no tears—of pain or of joy. Really, it’s an invasion, and one that he’s allowing because that’s what has been ordered of him.

And because, deep down, he wants Napoleon buried to the hilt in him. He wants him—has wanted him—in such a base, primal, animal way that he’s willing to bear these moments of not-pleasure. It’s the best excuse to have his hand in his, his weight on top of him, chest hair coarse against his shoulder blades, to hear him sound as though all the air’s been knocked out of his lungs.

“Where’d you come from,” he breathes.

He’s not moving yet, just lying in him like he wants to savor him. And that too is worth it. Illya can’t remember the last time he was treated like a luxury.

When Napoleon begins to move, the motion feels alien enough that Illya groans despite himself and clenches his fingers a little tighter. Napoleon rubs his chest with his free hand and slows, shushes him.

“You just take it, okay?” he murmurs. “You just stay there, I got it.”

Illya flushes and puts his forehead down and tries to obey.

When Napoleon moves again, it’s a little easier. He’s still massaging the center of Illya’s chest, still letting him hold his hand. His breath is hot in his hair. His cock pulls back and then pushes in again; Illya winces but doesn’t make a sound.

Pull back. Push in. Pull back. Illya begins to appreciate the friction, now that he’s growing used to it. He allows a soft sigh to escape him, and he can almost hear Napoleon grin above him.

He pushes in again, and this time his cock hits something odd. Illya goes rigid.

“Do that again.”

But there’s no need to say it because Napoleon is already pushing in again and hits the same spot.

“Good?” he pants, and Illya’s cock twitches at how wrecked he sounds. He hits the spot a third time, firm enough that it seems to turn on a whole other nervous system, and all at once, Illya understands the appeal of this.

Without thinking he pushes his hips back against him, taking him even deeper. Napoleon grasps at his hip, his thigh, finds his cock. His mouth is soft on the back of his neck, in his hair. His teeth against his scalp.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re a natural.”

He lets go of Illya’s hand to throw his arm around his chest and pull him upright onto his knees, Illya’s back flush against his chest and his head thrown back on his shoulder. He should hate being manhandled—he should hate all of this, and _oh God_ , if they somehow learn how much he’s actually enjoying it, how hard he’s panting as Napoleon speeds up the rhythm of his cock and his hand, there will be nothing that can save him.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he wills himself. _Just take it. Just take it._

Napoleon pushes his thighs further apart, hauling him back even further onto his cock. Illya might sob. He’s panting, legs trembling.

And Napoleon, chanting like a mantra—

“Atta boy—that’s it—that’s it—that’s it—”

He feels his orgasm in his spine, warm and tense and inevitable, a full minute before it happens.

Afterward, he’s dimly aware of Napoleon asking if he wants him to stop or slow down. He shakes his head, and so Napoleon continues to fuck him through the last shocks of orgasm into overstimulation. It’s painful, but the pain is worth it for that other feeling of being slammed into, claimed, _had_. Napoleon has both his arms around him now, cocooning him, for which Illya is grateful; his legs are still shaking and can barely support his weight. His thrusts are shallower, quicker. Moving for himself and not for Illya. But still Illya pants, his eyes damp as his head falls back onto Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon keeps biting the point where Illya’s neck joins his shoulder. He worries the rising bruise hard with his tongue, then bites it again, then grunts a curse as he buries himself to the hilt in him and comes. Illya feels it all—the pulsing of his cock, the warm wet inside him.

They collapse boneless on the bed, Napoleon still inside him. With a little hitch of breath, he eases himself free, and Illya only just keeps himself from whimpering like a dog at the loss. How has he ever survived being this empty? But some of his distress must come through all the same because Napoleon lies down on top of him again, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and shushes him.

They lie there for a while. Just breathing, and listening to the other breathe.

“I’m gonna get a towel, okay?” Napoleon says at last. “You just stay here.”

“You’re babying me,” Illya grumbles, and Napoleon hums, kisses the back of his neck.

“Damn right. Someone oughta.”

His weight disappears, the bed undulates, and he’s gone. Illya feels very cold.

 _You just stay here_ be damned. Illya’s not a shrinking violet, he’s not delicate, and he’ll be damned if this has moved him at all. It’s sex. He’s better than this.

He pushes himself upright and then stands up before he can second-guess himself. The change of angle is startling, leaves him lightheaded. He can hear the sink rushing in the bathroom. Napoleon’s washing his hands.

He wants to get back on the bed, lie down, and wait for him to return. What he needs to do is wash all the spunk off his chest, get dressed, and have a drink. Alone.

He’s about to go for the bathroom himself when something tepid and wet tickles the inside of his thigh, traveling down the back of his knee. After a moment, Illya realizes it’s semen. His gorge rises, and with it all the feelings he’s been fighting. He claps a hand to his mouth and stands rigid in the middle of the bedroom, trying to keep quiet as he breaks.

Footsteps. Hands on his shoulders. Warm, familiar. Napoleon gathers him into his chest and, to Illya’s utter surprise, says nothing at all. Just holds him. Illya presses his face into his neck as though doing so can hide the fact that he’s beginning to cry like a child. That trail of semen slides inexorably down his calf, onto his ankle.

“Come here. Come here.”

Napoleon leads him to the bathroom and turns on the bath. The roar of the water in the tub feels deafening in the silence, which makes it easier to let it all out. Napoleon takes him to the sink and begins wiping the mess from his chest with a damp washcloth. He kneels in front of him and wipes the trail of semen from his ankle, his calves, his thighs, his stomach and his chest. Illya leans against the counter, sniffling and feeling vaguely humiliated.

Napoleon stands up again and finds him a fresh washcloth, but Illya pushes it out of the way to put his arms around him.

When he’s quieter, his outburst finally subsiding, Napoleon pulls back and cups his damp cheek.

“What was all that about?” he asks softly, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Huh?”

Illya shakes his head, shrugs with one shoulder.

“Don’t know.”

“He doesn’t know. Come on. You’re having a bath.”

He looks at the bath, still filling up, and can feel the shape of the next hour. If he lets him, Napoleon will guide him into the water, make him relax, and probably pull another orgasm out of him in the process.

He steps out of his arms.

“Should go, I think,” he mutters.

“Bullshit. You don’t have to go anywhere.” He reaches for his jaw, but Illya steps back. He’s becoming quickly aware of his own nakedness, and Napoleon’s. It hadn’t been a problem earlier, but now he finds he wants some layers between them. “Illya, talk to me.”

Illya chews his lip, wrapping his arms around his chest in a pointless bid for modesty. He’s left modesty far, far away.

“Why do you treat me like this?” he asks at last.

Napoleon frowns. “How am I treating you?”

“Like I’m—” He searches for the right word but comes up empty. “The bath, the...” He gestures helplessly at himself. He wants to say _the kindness_ but can’t bring himself to do it.

But Napoleon seems to understand anyway.

“’Cause you deserve it.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the fact that it’s coming from the mouth of his mark is the worst sort of irony. The state is snatching away every remaining scrap of his dignity, and if the man it was all for were callous or cruel, then Illya could understand. But he’s gentle and clearly wants Illya to feel good, and not only is this antithetical to everything Illya was taught about homosexuals, but it’s antithetical to what this transaction should be. There should be no room for tenderness and yet here Napoleon is, offering it, and it’s fucking with Illya’s head.

His stomach aches.

“I can’t be here,” he mutters and goes back to the bedroom for his clothes.

In his own hotel room, Illya locks the door behind him. He goes to the parlor, with the brimming vase of peonies on the side table.

It smashes into a pile of glass fragments, water, and blood-colored petals, and still Illya can’t quiet the rage in him. No—not rage. It’s not anger that he feels, but something more nebulous and harder to define. Unclean and painful and gut-wrenching.

“Illya, what the hell—”

The noise has roused Gaby, who stops short in the doorway at the sight of him. He doesn’t know what she sees, but it’s enough to turn her expression from anger to concern.

The pain still hums in his chest as she comes toward him. She grabs him by his collar—he did up the buttons wrong, he realizes absently—and hisses something that he doesn’t catch. But he understands on a more primal level and, with difficulty, reins in his pain.

“... Illya, come on,” she’s saying. “Sit down.”

She guides him onto the floor, his back against the couch, and then sits down beside him.

“Just breathe, all right? Just breathe with me.”

She reaches to clutch his jaw, something she often does when she has to calm him from his fits, which still happens too often. It’s a steadying gesture, one he always appreciates. But not now. He tries to twist out of her grip, but she just catches his shoulder with her free hand, holds him there.

He knows when she sees the bite marks on his throat because she goes still, still holding him.

“Are you okay?” she asks at last.

He opens his mouth to say _Yes_ , but she deserves better than a facile, obvious lie. He shakes his head.

“Tell me,” she says softly.

“Can’t.”

“Illya, do you really think that I’d care?”

“I can’t.” He presses his fist to his mouth. He can’t look at her, but he can feel her gazing at him, sizing him up.

“Is this because you’re overthinking what comes next,” she asks at last, “or is it something else?”

He shakes his head again.

“Feel... soiled.” He swallows, chews his tongue. “Like I will not be clean again.”

He doesn’t want to talk about this with her—she deserves better than to see this part of him, especially when she already has to grapple with the other ugly parts of him so often. The mere idea of her having to know about this too makes him so ashamed he’d like to vomit.

But she’s putting her arm around him, gently pulling his head onto her shoulder.

 _You shouldn’t touch me,_ he thinks.

But she just massages the side of his shoulder with her fingers, squeezing him tighter and tighter every time he shivers against her.

“You know,” she says at last, softly, “if you think that I’m some sort of novice to all of this... I’m not.” He can’t look at her. She takes his chin and turns his head to face her. “I’ve been here,” she says. “I know exactly what you’re feeling because I’ve felt it. So please don’t think that you have to pretend around me, because I know what’s happening, and I’ve lived it myself.”

He frowns. She rolls her eyes.

“Waverly has yet to realize that the three people he’s got straightening out the world are all bent as paperclips,” she says.

Despite himself, he snorts. She touches his cheek.

“There, see? You’re smiling again.”

He lays his hand over hers where it rests against the side of his face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Her lips twitch, but it’s a tense movement, and her eyes don’t change the way they usually do when she’s really smiling. She lays her head against his shoulder.

“Did you like it?” she asks after a while. He gulps.

“At the time, yes.”

“And that was the problem.”

She’s far too good at reading him.

“Among other things,” he says.

She nods against his shoulder.

“Take a shower,” she says at last. “And get some rest. Oh, and if you even think of taking the couch, I’ll bull-charge you like I did in Rome.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling despite himself again.

“Yes, mother.”

“Why am I always cleaning up after you two?” she asks.

“Last time. I promise.”

She cranes her neck to look him in the eye without taking her head off his shoulder.

“Liar.”

Her smile is more genuine this time. It’s rare to see that, he realizes. She’s always so tense, coiled tight like a spring. It’s another way in which they’re alike. He squeezes her tighter to him and tries not to think of her or Napoleon downstairs.

He fails, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make your humble author write faster.


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